The King of Rage and the Queen of Ice
by chquine-harvinellisse
Summary: There are a number of things that suits her and red is not one of them.
1. Chapter 1

**I do not own League of Legends.**

**Enjoy!**

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There's blood everywhere.

It's a familiar scene and somehow, there's something amiss about it.

The dying screams and the blank faces is definitely a nightmare come to life.

Or maybe it's not a nightmare? What he remembers is far too vivid for a mere nightmare. And he's too old to be bothered by such childish things.

Perhaps it's a memory then?

Yes. This scene looks familiar; too familiar to belong to a dream. It's a memory then.

A memory of blood covering the ground, leaving behind a trail of red and death and sorrow and anguish in its wake, flashes in front of his opened eyes.

He sees his brethren lying dead on the ground; their weapons falling beside them like a loyal servant to his master.

He sees unstrung bows and broken arrows, with their wielders fallen to the ground.

Bows and arrows? Barbarians never use those weapons.

He looks again and before him, a flag with tattered edges is flapping in the wind. The crest sewn on the flag is something he has always seen.

It's the crest of the Avarosan tribe.

And suddenly a fire spreads to his veins. His senses ignite violently and it stirs anxiety within him.

This is not his tribe. Or rather, this is not the tribe that gave birth to him.

It's the tribe that has become his home.

Blood coats the pure white snow and life itself seems to have fled from the desolate place.

Could it be that dark figure again? Could his memories be re-enacted by the same perpetrator?

He runs; runs like he never has before. His destination is uncertain, his goal is unclear, but he will not stand by and do nothing as these people who have welcomed him wither into the void of death.

His sword forms a valley in the pile of snow. The cold winter winds bite onto the skin of his torso and his arms, but he does not care. He keeps on running instead.

A white puff of smoke announces each loud breath he exhales. His eyes scan madly around for the slightest indication of life or the need for help.

He is their King and he will not abandon his people.

Even with his loud and labored breaths, he hears the wind whistling in the command of a released arrow. It pierces through wood with a thud and ceases its journey.

Desperately, he searches for the source of the sound, praying to whatever deity that he is not too late to give his help. They said that Avarosa herself chose the Queen of this tribe, why then is it in the brink of extinction?

His heart beats madly, pumping blood faster and making the fire in his veins hotter. The winter chill seems to be a thousand leagues away. He cannot see the death present around him anymore.

He can only feel the need to make the perpetrator pay.

He can only feel the need to lift his sword and cut the assaulter in half.

He can only feel the need to kill.

He can only feel the rage that has been present since the death of his birth.

The whistling wind reaches his ears again and this time he knows where it's coming from.

It's coming from the range.

A thud follows, and another, and another, and another. A clang comes after and the sound of skin being sliced.

And a voice that fills him with dread.

Although it puzzles him as to why the trail of blood is present, he disregards it just so he won't be distracted.

The range comes in sight and he wants to feel relief.

But there is no respite today.

She stands there, her hood blown out from her head, her hands clutching her bow with a fitted arrow, ready to strike and the weariness in her eyes.

He's always admired those eyes of hers.

Those eyes always saw ahead, ahead mountains, plains, snow, sun; skies. She always saw past everything.

Her eyes always see the better things underlying the smallest of things.

She even saw what was good in a being, hollowed except for rage.

And that was when he started to fall in love with her.

That was when he started to treasure her, more than the blade that has been an heirloom.

That was when he started to see her, not as a political pawn, but as a woman.

That was when she became his wife.

Her lips are pale and chapped: a contradiction as her lips never lost their rosy color even in the harsh cold.

Her hair is in disarray, a lovely sight had they been elsewhere.

And that vile being is before her. His blade is ready to slice through her very life and drink up the blood that would have been Avarosa's.

No. He would stop that… that demon.

He would never let that vile being take his Queen.

With rage burning in his eyes, the King howls and runs towards the demon. He will not let the other lay a finger on his wife.

Her eyes fill with hope as she sees him. And he's never seen a more beautiful sight.

All the sunrises and sunsets combined together cannot compare to the light shown in her eyes and the life in her face.

But the demon smirks. A cruel and twisted form of amusement crosses his features.

And the raged King realizes, with those wings, the demon will get his Queen first.

Before his eyes, her weapons shatter, becoming shards of ice that reflect his despaired face on every facet.

On the other side of the shards, the reflection is that of his Queen being impaled by the demon's blood-drinking sword.

The sword cuts through her lithe body, and drenches her clothes with her own blood. Her hair sways in the sudden wind and her eyes shine with tears.

With shaking hands, she grabs the hand guard of her killer's sword. She can feel his sword slowly draining, _drinking_ the life out of her.

Realization dawns on him. He was too slow. He was too slow to save the one woman he's learned to love.

He failed to save the woman who saw past his rage.

He failed to save the woman who would mother his children.

He failed to save the ice that pulsed with warmth and love.

He failed to save his wife.

With a loud shout, he runs the demon through with his sword, cutting through skin and sinew.

The demon staggers before cruelly taunting the raged King with another smirk. And then he disappears, along with the sword that's impaled the Queen.

She falls, but he catches her. And he holds her. He holds her so tightly, his bare hands molding into hers.

He opens his mouth, but not a word is formed. He wants to apologize, he wants to confess his love out loud once and for all, but none of those will reach her ears.

Her hand comes to his cheek; he doesn't notice. She is cold, like ice, but warm and homely, like fire. Contradictions, but contradictions he's come to love nonetheless.

Her lips form a joyous smile yet at this point he doesn't know what there is to be joyous about.

She's dying.

And he isn't able to do anything about it.

He calls her name, low, broken and coarse. But nothing else comes after that. A million thoughts are begging to be released from his mind, but his body allows him no release.

Can't he be given the freedom, even just this once?

He's been a slave to rage, to hatred; can't he be allowed to be human?

She squeezes his hand, and she thanks him. A tear slips past her left eye and he is quick to wipe it off.

His Queen has never been one to cry.

And he doesn't like the sight of her crying.

She gets the message and keeps the incoming torrent. She would have to keep them until her death.

A word of gratitude slips past her lips again, directed to him and more hoarse and broken than the first.

He cannot comprehend why she would thank him still.

But here she is, dying and expressing her gratitude for him over and over again.

With a shuddering breath she thanks him, once more. Another tear slips past her left eye and this time, he does not wipe it anymore.

And then she professes her love for him, out loud, in a raw and unhindered manner.

Since their supposed political marriage, none of them has ever uttered of love. This would be a beginning as both of them would like.

But it turns out, that beginning is to be an end.

His mouth is agape, air is no longer a necessity and all he wants is to reciprocate.

But he is too late.

Her hands drops lax, her eyes close, sealing those beautiful blue eyes of hers; she ceases breathing.

She dies in his arms.

And the King of rage, silently, weeps for his Queen of ice.

His cries are muffled by her shoulder, but tremors violently rack his body.

And suddenly his rage grants him freedom. Over and over he confesses his love for her.

But she can never hear his words anymore.

He can never see those eyes that see beyond everything.

He can never feel those lips grace his again.

He can never smell the fragrance that is her.

The King can never be with his Queen.

He stares at her face. Even at death her beauty remains. Even at the pale of snow, the memory of life in her remains.

He scoops her off the ground and stands up. A Queen such as her deserves a proper burial.

An altar made of wood stands in the middle of their barren kingdom. It was once a beautiful paradise. Now only death stands.

Their allies are nowhere to be found, but he will worry about that later.

He clothes her in the garments that she wore on their wedding day. It was the day when her beautiful lips first kissed him.

Now it will forever remain to be a bittersweet memory.

Her long hair, he gathers to one side and ties it with golden rings, like she used to do when she practiced with her bow and arrow.

Those weapons she loved so much are now merely shards of ice.

And they say that Avarosa herself used them.

His remorse is so far away. All he wants to do now is to pay respects to the final memories of his beloved wife.

He surrounds her with flowers. How the flowers came to be in such a harsh environment, he doesn't know.

But the color of blue, purple, turquoise, indigo, aqua and lavender suit her.

He puts her hands on her chest and kisses them, lovingly and tenderly.

Lastly, her crown adorns her head. She was born to him a Queen; she will die to him a Queen.

He kisses her cold lips and mourns at how cold she has become.

There is no blood anymore.

Red does not suit her.

Yet red will engulf her.

He grabs a torch and stares at her one last time before setting the altar aflame.

He steps back, stabs the ground with his sword and kneels on one knee beside it.

He says his final goodbyes to his Queen as the rage ebbs off to stand side by side with a sorrow that cannot be accounted for.

The pyre burns, brilliant red and the ashes float off, past the mountains, the plains, the snow, the sun and the skies, like her eyes.

The King stands, weary and sorrowful, but he marches on. The demon who slew his Queen will not be forgiven.

They've spent a lifetime apart and now they will spend an eternity without another.

Such is the King of rage and the Queen of ice.

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**I didn't mean for the ending to turn out that way... XD**

**I intended it to be a dream but then one thing led to another and there you have it... A TryndXAshe fic.. XD**

**My boyfriend nearly cried by the way... Mostly because he Tyrnnds and I Ashe... XD**

**Anyway please do not hesitate to click the REVIEW button and feel free to convey your deepest darkest thoughts regarding the fic...**

**Thanks for reading! =D**

**chquine_harvinellisse**


	2. How he loved her

**So since I had so much reviews, I decided to add at least two chapters...**

**It would potentially ruin the first chapter, but yeah my decision has been made...**

**So enjoy reading! =D**

**I do not own League of Legends.**

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An arrow flies through the air and finds its mark: through the eyes of the doe.

The animal screeches before it plummets to the ground, dead.

She sighs, blowing out a puff of smoke as she does.

The morning is warm and bright and it is too good to pass a hunt and a walk in the forests.

Hunting is one of the things she's missed since all those heavy responsibilities fell to her shoulders.

She never thought that she had to be a tribe-leader and a Queen in just a quick snap of the finger.

It was unimaginable after all.

Her mother may be the tribe's leader, but a lot of people did not want her to follow so easily.

Proof of that was the threat to her life.

With steps muffled by a thin layer of snow, she approaches her dead target. She would carry it home and wear its fur but it would be too heavy for her.

She then regrets not having someone accompany her.

Standing up, she listens for the sound of scurrying. A squirrel or something of the like that she can carry on her own would only be enough for an armlet.

Her reason for hunting then evades her, like water flowing through a sieve.

She shrugs and moves on. The east sun is merely starting to break the darkness of night. Her people would wake soon and they would probably be in disarray if she is nowhere to be found.

She looks back, pondering on whether she should return or let them worry for an hour.

Her people should learn to trust her after all.

She starts to walk away from the direction of her tribe. Her strides are long and uncertain, like her instincts have been made dull.

Is that why she went out, to sharpen her instincts once more?

The excuse is very legitimate and yet it doesn't sound right in her brain.

She stops and ceases all movement, save for her breathing.

And she thinks. She thinks long; she thinks hard until she completely forgets why she's thinking in the first place.

All she remembers are politics, long talks and meetings, hours and hours of sitting on wooden chairs and plotting for survival.

Her marriage flashes from behind her eyes and she shuts them tight.

It hadn't been completely unpleasant, but a part within her begs to differ. It's a part of her that she hasn't allowed to resurface since the death of her mother.

The girl within her is chastising her for allowing herself such a disgusting marriage.

She married a barbarian; not a prince.

He is homeless and a vagabond; without a palace, a home; an empire.

She married a brute who wanders half-naked in the cold; not a well-dressed gentle man atop a horse.

He does not speak to her unless circumstances command; he does not woo her with sweetened words and phrases of admiration.

He did not court her; that's something that the girl resents.

But she is a long way from being a girl. She's a woman; a Queen more so. Her King may not be a prince at first, but he has not done ill to her.

Still, she cannot deny how her heart yearns for a man, told of in old books her nanny used to read to her in nights when she could not sleep.

Her mother never read to her; she sang to her. Her voice was beautiful, like morning birds at first light. And it would always work better than those stories.

Those stories, she now knows, are merely stories.

And her mother's voice is merely a memory.

She thinks then that she is in a wretched situation. She has no source of solace now.

There's no mother to sing to her; no nanny to read those ridiculous stories to her.

She is alone. No one will stretch out their hand to her and save her from the void of the inexplicable she's drowning in.

She resumes moving, her strides are large and careless. She walks faster and faster until she reaches a sprint.

Her speed increases, ignoring the snow clinging to her boots and trying to slow her down. She's no stranger to the terrain; she knows how running can seem to be completely futile in such conditions.

She runs; runs like there's an opponent pursuing her.

She runs like it will take her somewhere further.

She runs like there's something, _anything_ in front of her that's worthwhile.

She runs like she would from everything that she has behind her.

But the mere fact that she has to return makes her stop again. This time she falls to her knees.

She resents no one, but she wishes she has the heart to.

Her problem is that she's too merciful and too forgiving. If her enemies would ask for her forgiveness she would grant it immediately.

She would grant them forgiveness even though they could possibly plot against her.

It's not that she's soft; it's just that she _knows_ there's something, anything worth behind all those evils they employed on her.

There's more to a man than meets the eye, her mother taught her.

And it's one of the things she lives with despite her mother's passing.

She wants to resent someone. She wants to blame someone for what has happened to her.

In fact, she wants to hate Avarosa for ever choosing her.

But the problem is she can't.

She's too weak for something as strong and powerful as hate, anger, resentment, vengeance; rage.

Her bows are meant to right; not to kill.

She then wonders if Avarosa was like this. She is said to be the goddess' chosen after all.

Serylda's chosen must be right. She must be worthy of ridicule.

A twig snaps and her head turns abruptly to the source. Her eyes scan the premises, as if they can look through every snow-covered bush.

She left the bow and arrows of ice and opted for normal ones for her hunt. If she has her enchanted weapons then she can summon a hawk spirit to scout for her.

After a moment, she shakes her head. She went to hunts as a child without the presence of a hawk spirit and she was never harmed.

But she is not a child anymore and a lot of people would rather her dead than alive and meddling.

The Queen draws and arrow from its quiver and fits it into the bow. Should whatever or whoever behind that bush prove to be hostile, she won't hesitate to strike it down.

The bush to her left starts to shake and she slowly but surely stalks towards it. A squeak comes out of it and she tentatively pokes it with the lower end of her bow.

The shaking persists and she is taken by surprise when something touches the edge of her boot. The offending creature meets the pointed tip of her arrow.

But the creature's squeak is weak and whiney, she notes.

She retracts her weapons from the creature and is shocked.

A squirrel is on the snow, sprayed with blood with its tail cut diagonally. The animal squeaks as if asking for help from her.

She studies the maimed tail and before she can make any action for amends, another sound captures her attention.

It's a battle grunt.

And that voice, she knows all too well.

It's the voice of her husband.

It could be inferred that she has not regarded him as her husband.

The girl within her could have taken over her psyche when she only considers marriage bonded by love.

It worked for her mother after all.

The squirrel runs past her and she starts for the sound. It doesn't take her too long to see her husband brutally hacking a dead boar.

Fear strikes her heart as she sees his eyes. They are burning with rage that would have been for an adversary.

She knows of her husband's foe. He has told them about that flying demon that slew his family and filled him with nothing but rage.

But she never thought he would be this frightening.

The way he hacks at the boar is simply inhumane. Swinging that monstrous blade is no feat for a mere man.

But as she watches him, she is convinced more and more that he's no man.

She then wonders if Avarosa had such a man by her side as well.

He continues raging on and she, pitying the poor mutilated boar, fits an arrow, holds her bow up, pulls the string and lets go.

The pointed tip of her arrow meets the battered steel of his sword with a loud clunk and it makes him stop. His eyes turn to her and for a terrible moment, she's afraid that he might attack her.

She is relieved when the rage filling his eyes slowly dissipates. He acknowledges her with a small nod.

He calls her name slowly and greets her a pleasant morning. She reciprocates accordingly albeit too coldly to be a lover's response.

And then she remembers that they are not lovers.

They stand there, silent and unmoving. Except for political matters, she and her husband have never engaged in idle talks.

It has always been how to survive with what little they could find, how they can unite the Freljord for the sake of the people they have united.

He knows very little to none at all about her; she cannot say that she is any better.

Contritely, he turns to the boar and sighs. He left the tribe early in the morning as his nightmares have been plaguing him again.

Despite being wide awake, he can still see it. He can still see everything so vividly.

And without his consent, the rage bubbles within him.

His vice grip on his sword is not unseen to her.

For the first time since this charade they played, she sees her husband vulnerable. She sees a man tormented by his past, shackled in his present and wary of his future.

Unafraid, she approaches him. She lays her weapons down and steps towards him with nothing to retaliate with should his rage be upon her.

He is not aware; he is only made aware by her cold fingers touching his bare shoulder. And he jumps back in surprise.

She blinks but does not retract her hand from his shoulder. He feels so strong from under her fingertips and the blood rapidly coursing through his veins is not muted to her.

He is tense. He knows that he may snap out of his calm stupor any moment and he may harm her. He may hurt her.

And the last thing he would want is to see the woman who saved his people, hurt.

So gently, he puts a hand on top of hers and would have pushed it off if she did not give him a smile.

She gives him a smile so warm that her title would have been put to shame.

He stands frozen as she drapes her arms over his shoulders and brings herself so close to him.

The only thing he could think of is how he has never been embraced like this before.

And his rage ebbs away.

All the more so when she tells him that he is not the slave of his rage. She tells him that his rage is a weapon for him to wield.

He is not rage.

He is the Barbarian King.

He is her husband.

And he is the one that she will stay with until the last of her breath.

Her words have moved him and he hesitantly flattens a hand on her back.

She is so small.

She is so delicate.

She is so inexplicably cold and warm at the same time.

And she is so beautiful.

He has never been keen on women and their characteristics. But she, she is different.

Her beauty is too stark to him that he cannot help but acknowledge it too.

When she pulls away, he finds himself staring directly at her eyes.

They are blue, like the color of the skies when the sun graces the eastern skies.

And they look so boundless in depth, like an ocean that he has often heard of.

For some reason, he finds her eyes to be too soft, too forgiving, too understanding; too kind.

Her eyes are too pure.

He smiles at her as well before they put space between them.

She turns her back to him and he calms down. He stares back at the boar and feels immensely apologetic for wronging the poor creature.

But he is different now. He may not be completely different, but he will do well to become one.

After all, this woman, this… Queen before him, has given him more than enough reason to become a better person.

She stretches out her hand to him. And as he takes it, a violent sensation stirs within him.

It makes his skin tingle and his spine shiver.

It makes his blood run like man in his veins. But it does not feel like rage.

It's strong like rage but milder.

It's over-powering like rage but he does not lose himself.

It originates from him like rage, but it is not directed to others.

The rage-like sensation is, more accurately and specifically, directed to the woman before him.

He's often heard of such strong sensations, mostly from his tender mother before she died.

What was it?

He doesn't know, but this strong sensation feels extremely comfortable, like he, from the very beginning is supposed to feel such a sensation.

To him the best part is that it is directed to none other than his wife, the woman he would like to spend the rest of his days with.

And that is how he loved her.

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**Again thank you to those who reviewed especially my beloved RrenDa... 3**

**I love you milord...**

**You'll always be the Tryndamere/Veigar of my life... XD**

**Anyway please do not hesitate to click the REVIEW button and feel free to convey your deepest darkest thoughts regarding the fic as it is greatly appreciated by the writer. =D**

**There will be another chapter so I hope you wait for that...**

**Thanks for reading!**

**chquine_harvinellisse**


	3. How she loved him

**I do not own League of Legends.**

**Enjoy~! =D**

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The night is deep and silent.

He rises from his bed, restless, but careful not to wake the woman beside him.

Nothing romantic is between them, but they thought that sharing a bed between them would be good for show.

Their people are young and they are in need of rulers that are true.

With that in mind, neither of them had a qualm about the matter. It was something people like them would do.

He pulls the blanket over her shoulders. She looks restless.

Standing up, he walks over the window and closes it. It's colder than most nights of the Freljord.

He glances around the room and his eyes land on the fireplace, where the embers are weakly flickering.

He grabs the poker and starts prodding on the logs. He adds coal from the sack beside him and the fire starts to crackle and burn.

The room is considerably warmer and he is satisfied with it.

He hears a small moan and turns to her. She stirs a bit and goes still.

There is no reason for him to be worried at the least. Their tribe is in peace and those who threaten it have yet to make their move. The people are living well and it's one of the things their arranged marriage hoped to achieve.

The King moves away from the fire and resumes his place beside his wife.

He notes that when she sleeps she's as harmless as a fly.

She's on her side, facing him if he were on the bed. Her hair forms a thin curtain covering her face.

To him there's nothing more beautiful.

He could not tell her that and he cannot tell her that.

There are repercussions that he is not prepared to exterminate yet.

But once he is, by Avarosa, he will tell her.

For now, he will content himself with watching her slumber.

He climbs onto the bed as well and pulls the covers over him. He turns to her so they're face to face.

Gently, he pushes the hair out of her face and she stirs and stills.

Whatever worry he bore in his chest a while ago is gone. Perhaps it's because he loves her that her mere presence is enough to chase away his demons?

Perhaps it's because she opened her arms and her heart to him that he cannot help but have the compelling desire to protect the woman before him?

He does not know. And he does not care to know.

His eyelids start to flutter and the image of her sleeping right next to him becomes blurred.

Finally he is feeling the need and the overwhelming want to sleep.

Slowly he closes his eyes and allows the slumber to embrace him.

But then a loud clang snaps him out of his stupor.

He is upright within minutes and his wife follows suit.

He clenches and unclenches his fingers. The tingling left on his skin and the shiver running down his spine is telling him that an uninvited guest is within.

She gets his signal and grabs her weapons.

There had been infiltrations in their abode before and most of them happened in the middle of the night.

They are no strangers to assassins sent to end their lives by either the Winter's Claw or the Ice Witch or even foreigners. It is not easy to become the monarchial heads of a city-state after all.

He grabs his sword as she flattens her ear on the door. Her hands move quickly and precisely to fit the arrow into her bow.

The Barbarian King on the other hand, is warming up his muscles to the use of his large sword.

Slowly, she pushes the large wooden door open and peeks at both sides. Opening it large enough for exit, she steps out, the moonlight reflecting her steps on the carpeted floor.

He follows her in a less-graceful manner yet it's quiet enough to match her stealth.

She is poised to strike at whatever may come from her side and he is sure to finish what comes from his.

They wait motionlessly. There are no other inhabitants of their house. Servants leave after sunset as they believe that the King and the Queen of the Freljord have activities that do not require their ears.

After a few they decide to split up and look for the infiltrators. They agree to meet up inside their room once they are done.

The King heads to the left side while his Queen heads to the right.

And then he thinks that it would be problematic if it continues.

If, per se, they were to have children of their own then these things will happen more often.

And it will not be a growing environment for the children.

He imagines them, a girl and a boy, one with his hair and her eyes and the other with her hair and his eyes, or the other way around.

His childhood had not been much of a childhood, but if his Queen were to grace him with children of his own then he will fight whoever and whatever might wish to harm them.

And then he shakes his head.

Fantasies stay as fantasies, he reminds himself.

His Queen will not let him touch her in that way.

There is no love, he tells himself.

They are married out of political gain, he chants to himself.

She will not yield to him in that aspect, he admits to himself.

And he should not hope for too much, he berates himself.

It is enough that he found his way to her heart.

With a nod, the Barbarian King moves on.

His bare feet make no sound as they tread across the floor. Slow and calculated steps keep him hidden. The carpet disguises the sound of his sword being dragged along the ground.

He reaches the west wing of the house, where his wife made a library for herself. She is not really that keen into reading books, but she does read from time to time.

On the other hand, he never wanted to try.

To him it's all just symbols and drivel. They cannot be used in battle, so of what use are they to the likes of him?

He hears the flipping of pages and the dropping of books. He glances at the offender and pulls back in an instant.

This one's wearing a black robe; that much he can tell.

He hears strings of curses as the infiltrator moves from one shelf to another, tearing out pages and dropping books in the process.

The only books in her personal library are books containing the complete map of the Freljord, books regarding politics and economy, and a few novels regarding romance.

The King knows his wife's tastes. And he knows that she is not foolish enough to leave war stratagems in obvious places.

So he moves, quick and steady towards the offender. It is a good thing that the moon is in front of them and not behind them. The offender will not be able to see the King's shadow.

He lifts up his blade and when he is halfway through completely cutting the man in half, the latter moves away.

The shudder in the man's breath tells the barbarian that his prey is afraid.

And there is nothing to be afraid of unless you have a chance: a weapon.

Judging by his shallow and quick breaths, this man is not a fighter.

He is merely a coward.

The King grips his blade and prepares to decapitate the man.

The offender smirks and utters the name of his Queen before his head comes off clean.

Filled with sudden trepidation, he rushes off to the east side of the house. It is where the stairs leading to the first floor of their house is located.

He passes by their room and sees that she is not there. It can only mean that she's either still engaged in battle with the offender, or she's on her way back.

He can only hope that it's the latter.

The urge to take her in his arms and crush her small body into his deafens his ears and makes his senses go on alert.

Suddenly he can smell her.

Does that mean that she's close by?

Does that mean that she's safe?

Does that mean that his anxiety is merely him being paranoid?

He cannot help it, he reasons; he is in love with her.

He runs.

There is no one in the halls. And the stairs are eerily silent. Something prickles on his skin and he smells snow.

The backdoor is ajar and is being tossed to and fro by the winter wind.

Quickly, he steps off the stairs, taking two steps at a time and jumping past the last three steps.

As he approaches the door, he smells her again.

The extreme sensitivity of his senses is threatening to drive him crazy, but at least it can help him.

He hears a clang and another and another and then the rustling of snow. When he finally reaches the backdoor, he sees his Queen.

She is on the snow, facedown. Her bow is far from her reach and her arrows are splayed.

The man before her is wearing the same black robe.

But this one has a weapon.

This one has an axe.

He cannot determine from where the axe came from but he's sure that the blood coating the sharp end is his wife's.

And his heart starts to beat madly.

His eyebrows furrow together and he can feel the blood heating up his ears.

He can hear the rhythmic pumping of blood through his veins. And he cannot deny the anger bubbling from within the deepest reaches of his abdomen.

His Queen is hurt.

And the offender will pay.

With a loud battle cry, the King drags his blade towards the snow and charges at the robed man.

The man does not speak and instead uses his axe to defend himself. They have nearly equal speed due to the size of the weapons they wield.

But when it comes to strength, the rage of the King cannot be paralleled by this mere man.

This one smirks even as he is fallen on one knee. He futilely tries to keep his axe in his hands as the Barbarian King mercilessly pounds the axe's blade with his sword.

There is no forgiveness for the assault of his Queen.

And this man will be the first to be witness to that.

She lies on the snow, helpless as the previous attack with the axe injured her left arm to the point of bleeding. The cold helped numb the wound, but she could not feel her entire arm at the moment.

She managed to send out her hawk to one of their allies before she was injured. But then she became an easy prey to the man's fists.

Her cheek is stinging a bit, but thankfully it's not swelling that badly.

She turns to the King, who is continuing is fatal swings. And she hears him mutter the word, _unforgivable_.

She sees the rage and the hate and the loathing and the pure anger.

And she wonders why he is acting in such a way.

She sees his hand, angry with veins as he is gripping his sword too tightly.

And she watches as he, with one swift motion, pierces the man's torso, like meat run through with a prong.

The offender dies, with his axe in his hands and still raised upward, as if defending from the King's blows.

His rage ebbs off and he puts his blade down. From the corner of his eye, he sees his Queen, lying on the cold snow.

And he rushes to her like a madman.

He takes her in his arms and takes her left hand. She winces, the sudden contact made her quite surprised.

Above all, the warmth was too blatant to ignore.

His eyes are filled with worry and regret.

And she wonders why he is acting in such a way.

They sit there in silence until the cold makes her shiver. He offers to take her back inside, but she implores him to take her arrows and her bow.

And so he does. He gently places her down on the snow, like she's a porcelain doll. And it stirs something within her.

This man is her husband.

Perhaps she did not see him as such.

No. She did not _want_ to see him as such.

He may not be princely, but she is sure, no prince will be able to protect her from such threats.

He may be a barbarian but he has not behaved himself as such.

He may be filled with rage, but she knows that it is not everything about him.

He… this man, who is picking up her arrows, is her husband.

And when she utters his name in her head, she feels it.

She feels the love emanating from her and soaring out to him, like an arrow in flight.

He goes back to her side and hands her weapons. He picks her up and his sword as well.

They walk up in silence to their bedroom.

The young Queen is new to such depth of emotion, but with this man holding her in his arms, she knows that there is nothing to be afraid of.

Once they're in their room, he places her on a chair and bandages her wounds. He washes off the blood and she studies him.

The coarseness of his face makes him fit to be a King; not a mere prince whose status can easily be erased once his existence reaches the same fate.

And she smiles.

He is no prince. He is a King.

He is her King.

When he sees her smile all of his worries vanish away.

And he allows himself a small smile as well.

Everything is fine because he loves her.

He stands up and she follows suit, determined to prove herself a worthy woman to such a strong man.

She doesn't know that she doesn't need to prove herself.

He has already accepted her.

They climb on their bed together and pull the covers over them. They're sleeping face to face with smiles on their faces.

The fire slowly crackles as they eyelids start to become heavier and heavier by the minute.

And she watches as her King falls into sleep.

She reaches out and kisses his forehead, his nose and finally his lips.

Then she falls back to the mattress and welcomes slumber as she watches her King's serene face.

He saved her from such foolish fantasies that are not for her.

He treasured her; though she was not aware, he made her the most important thing of his life.

He gave her a love, one that does not exist in the novels that she read, but one that exists in her heart.

And that's how she loved him.

* * *

**So yeah this is the last chapter...**

**To be honest it took me longer than usual to find some inspiration for this... XD**

**And I think I ruined the magic of the angst in the first chapter... XD**

**And that's why I probably won't be continuing.**

**But thank you to my readers and the ones who reviewed. I really appreciated it... =D**

**So please do not hesitate to click the REVIEW button and feel free to convey your deepest darkest thoughts regarding the fic as it is greatly appreciated. =D**

**And I'll be working on my other fics and a GarenXKatarina fic (finally!). =D**

**See you in between the lines again!**

**chquine_harvinellisse**


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